


Confidences

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Outsider, Season/Series 14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 02:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17840300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: John and Mary have a discussion about the relationship of their sons.





	Confidences

**Author's Note:**

> I really love stories about John or Mary finding out about Sam and Dean. I've been wanting to write one for some time, but couldn't quite figure out how to frame it. Then I watched "Lebanon."

2019  
Mary's POV

John presses me up against the Bunker wall, his lips on mine, his hands running up and down my sides. My head drops against the wall as my eyes drift closed, my heartbeats multiplying, my panties moistening. Everything about John is both familiar and foreign. Tantalizing, desirable, head-spinningly wonderful. He kisses the same way--desperately but, at the same time, tenderly, almost reverently--but his taste is entirely different: tobacco and whiskey instead of mint and fruit and beer. His face is lined, his hair grey, his body scarred. He's every inch the fiftysomething hunter my sons described, not the sweet, almost idealistic, thirtysomething mechanic I remember. His voice is deeper, raspier, roughened from smoke, alcohol, and hard-living. 

And yet, his eyes soften with the same affection when he looks at me. He whispers my name in the same awed, adoring murmur. His fingers seek out my most sensitive areas just as masterfully . . . .

He rubs a nipple, circling the nub with his thumb. I gasp, claw his back, contemplate pulling him over to the nearby War Room table. But. "John," I say, pushing ineffectually at his bulk (no wonder our sons are so big), "We . . . we can't. The boys . . . they'll be back any second."

He steps away, hands dropping reluctantly off my body. "Good point. I just . . . I can't get enough of you." He trails a finger down my face. "Can't believe this is real."

I smile through the tears clouding my eyes. "Neither can I." At least we got some time alone while Sam and Dean were at the store. I didn't bother renewing my birth control after Bobby took off and I'm right in the middle of my cycle. Maybe . . . .

"How long does it take to wash a few dishes?" John glances impatiently in the direction of the kitchen. I suspect he wants to get the pain of his imminent departure over with. Not that I blame him.

Before I can formulate a response, he strides off, long legs heading for the kitchen. I scurry to catch up, slam into him when he stops abruptly in the doorway. Peering around his bicep, I spot the reason for his sudden pause.

Our sons are locked in an embrace, Dean's (still-soapy) hands tangled in Sam's hair, Sam's huge paws possessively cupping Dean's face. Dean moans, sliding a leg around Sam's calf, prompting a pleased growl from his brother.

John and I don't even need to look at each other. In silent coordination born of our years as a couple and our (separate) experience as hunters, we grasp hands, move away from the kitchen, slip into my bedroom, quietly close the door.

I plop onto my (still rumpled from earlier activities) bed. John settles beside me, caresses the hand he's still holding.

"You don't seem surprised," I venture.

"Neither do you," he rejoins.

I study the scuffs on my boots. "No, I . . . . No."

He wraps his arm around me, starts musing, deep voice pleasantly, soothingly rumbling. "They were always close. And I thought, good, they'll protect each other, watch each other's backs, make one impressive hunting team." He shakes his head, smiling. Because all of that is undeniably true. John's smile fades into a pensive frown. "But then Sam turned sixteen, started shooting up, voice got deeper, started putting on some muscle." A sigh. "And Dean started looking at him differently." A blink. "And then Sam looked back."

1999  
John's POV

The motel room stands dark, silent, empty. The Impala's in the lot (I double-checked) but that doesn't mean the boys haven't left the premises. (Though a paranoid aspect of my brain whispers that it could mean they've been taken). I've found the boys outside their motel on plenty of occasions. Ten-year-old Dean teaching six-year-old Sam to swim at a public pool. Thirteen-year-old Dean lazily smoking while fondly watching nine-year-old Sam skipping rocks across a pond. (When I cleared my throat to make my presence known, Sam ran over to me, chattering about the water and the reeds and the tiny fish, distracting me, I realized later, from noticing Dean hurriedly stubbing out his smoke and attempting to mask the smell with body spray and breath mints). Fifteen-year-old Dean tolerantly following eleven-year-old Sam around a Revolutionary War battle site, listening to him expound about the people who fought and/or died there, the weapons used, the tactics that concluded the fight. Eighteen-year-old Dean sharing a bottle of Jack with a rosy-cheeked fourteen-year-old Sam.

Hmm. Maybe I should go look for them. 

Wait. Is that the shower? Who showers in the dark?

I creep over to where the bathroom door is not quite closed, glance inside. In fact, it's not at all dark in there. The room is well lit by the window above the tub. I have no trouble seeing the two very naked males in the shower.

"Sam." Dean's voice, gasping, wrecked. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" Sam pants in reply.

"Do it!" he orders.

I skedaddle. I should go pick up a pizza, maybe some pop, beer. Snacks for the road tomorrow. Make sure I'm not back for at least an hour.

As I sneak out the door, I'm aware I'm taking the coward's way out--ignoring the situation like I did with Dean's smoking (good thing Sam's a bit of a health nut, so didn't follow his brother into addiction). I should separate my sons, place them in situations where they can form healthy relationships, meet other boys. Or girls, if--as I think--they usually prefer the opposite sex. But I know I won't.

2019  
Mary's POV

"Dean was a smoker?" I know hunters smoke at a higher percentage than the general populace, and certainly Dean's unusually deep, rough voice is not entirely the work of nature, but . . . .

John shakes himself out the past, looks at me. "Yeah. Big time. He's not now?"

"Not that I've seen." Or smelled.

"He must have quit, then." John smiles. "Good for him." His smile fades. "I should do the same. I managed once, for you."

The grizzled man before me smooths into the dark-haired, bright-eyed boy I met so many years ago. "I remember." I recall walking hand-in-hand not long after we met, making an offhand negative, possibly derisive, comment about the stench of cigarette smoke, seeing him gulp, then, a moment after, grow steely, determined. He later informed me that he quit that night.

"Anyway, I always made certain to call before returning after that." Rueful, slightly ashamed eyes drop from mine.

Something niggles me. "But didn't Sam go to Stanford--they must have broken up or whatever" What even is the proper terminology for cases of incest? "after Sam left."

He shakes his head. "Not immediately."

2001  
John's POV

"You walk out that door, you don't ever come back!" My anger, never far from the surface these days, bursts out in a furious scream at the realization that my son has been lying for months, that he's leaving the family business, abandoning the search for Mary's killer, all for some pansy college degree.

Hazel eyes flash. Sam stands tall (taller than me--when did that happen?), straightens his broadening shoulders. "I won't." One last withering stare and he's gone.

I blink at the dusty, peeling white paint of the door through which my baby boy had just walked.

I hear a gasp, almost a sob beside me. Dean. I turn, but he's sprinting. Out the door (which he leaves open), down the driveway of the empty house we're squatting in, into the road, where he catches up with Sam, grabs his arm. Sam stops, spins Dean into his arms, kisses him desperately.

"Don't go!" Dean pleads.

"Come with me!" Sam begs.

Their words trip over each other. "I have to go." "I can't leave Dad." "Please." Eventually, they give up, embrace, maul each other's mouths as tears stream down their faces.

"I'll visit. Whenever I can," Dean promises once they disentangle. "Promise."

"You better." Sam lets go of Dean's hand, jogs away.

I race back to my armchair, so that I'll be editing my journal when Dean comes back in.

When he asks where our next hunt is located, in a calm voice belied by his shaking hands, I coolly reply, "Albuquerque." Neither of us mentions our missing family member.

2003

Whenever we have a hunt in northern California, Dean excuses himself with lies about bars, girls, concerts before sneaking off for a few hours, a couple days, a week (once). He's always pink-cheeked and dark-eyed, glowing with hope, excitement, lust.

But not this time. The Dean who left Roseville this morning spoke archly, cockily of a strip club in San Fran full of ladies who are more than ready to give certain customers a happy ending. But his cheeriness went no further than that brash smile. His green eyes were dull, his face pale, his posture dejected. 

I had to follow him.

The Stanford campus sparkles in the bright afternoon sun, highlighting the beauty of the two tall young men standing toe to toe on the walkway. I park nearby, roll down the window of my stolen car, crouch down so I can see and hear without being noticed by my observant, vigilant sons. 

"I told you on the phone," Sam impatiently brushes his too-long bangs out of his eyes, crosses his arms. "I met someone."

Dean clenches his fists. "Yeah, but you didn't tell me who he is. Why you're leaving me for him. What he has that I don't!" His voice rises with each enraged statement.

Sam uses the advantage of his superior height to glare scornfully down at his brother. "She." He speaks very precisely, intoning every letter of the short word, so there can be no doubt.

Green eyes widen. "What?"

A humorless chuckle. "Are you so egotistical you thought I would lose all interest in girls after being with you?"

Dean blinks. "No. I thought that you would lose all interest in everyone. I thought it was you and me. Forever."

Sam's eyes drop to the blinding white sidewalk. "That was just an adolescent dream. It was never going to work."

Dean's burning ire melts the tears that were starting to form. "And it will work with this girl?"

Sam squares his shoulders. "Yes. She's everything I ever wanted. She can give me the life I always wanted." And you can't goes unsaid, but perfectly comprehended.

"Fine. Enjoy that life." Dean marches away, jamming a cigarette in his mouth.

Sam stomps in the opposite direction, brow furrowed, body tense. He softens when he's accosted by a beautiful coed. Tall. Athletic figure. Golden hair. Wide green eyes. Full lips. High cheekbones. Apparently, everything Sam's ever wanted is the female version of his brother.

2019  
Mary's POV

"That was two weeks ago," John comments. "For me."

I consider that. "And then you find yourself here and they're clearly together. In both senses of the word."

He wraps an arm around me. "It must have been worse for you. They were just babies when you . . . ." 

"Died? Yes. It was an adjustment." I snuggle into his warm, familiar embrace.

"Especially when you . . . found out." He tenses, looks at me. "How did you find out?"

I bite my lip. "You know, at first I thought Dean was with Castiel. The way Cas hugged Dean. He just launched himself at him. Then, I thought maybe Cas was with Sam. He was so ready to tear apart the people who took him." I shrug. "But if that angel feels anything for either of them, it's one-sided."

2016  
Mary's POV

I close John's hunter journal, emotions chaotically zooming from grief over my husband's death to frustration that he raised my children as hunters to impressed at the amount of lore he amassed during his life to sadness for the lonely, driven man he became. Which leads me back to grief.

I need a break. Maybe more tea. Maybe something stronger.

I make my way toward the kitchen. Wait, which direction was it again?--this place is such a maze.

I hear voices. Must be my sons (and how weird is it that my little baby and toddler are in their thirties--how long will it take me to grow used to this reality?). I can ask them. If their polite discomfort, searching gazes, concerned smiles don't make me feel even more unsettled.

"You were dead, Dean." Sam's voice. "I mean, I thought you were."

"I'm okay." Dean's voice. "But you, Sam, you were tortured for days."

"Nothing she did to me was as bad as thinking, knowing you were dead." He sounds weary.

A pause. Shuffling, rustling. Are they hugging? I move closer.

"The worst part, though," Sam speaks again, "is this spell she did on me. She made me think we were together, that I wanted it." Disgust bleeds from his tone. Then, very quietly, he adds, "I cheated on you."

Did I hear that right?--I can't have heard that right.

"No!" Dean is adamant. "Sam, you were raped. That's not the same thing." A thump. Did they fall against the wall while hugging? "I won't let you think that."

"I'll try not to." Sam sounds doubtful. "But, anyways, I'm home, you're alive, let's celebrate!"

"I like your thinking." Muffled footsteps, voices fading away.

I'm no longer thirsty, no longer seeking a break from my exploration of the past, no longer interested in conversing with these mystifying strangers my babies grew into.

2019

John regards me thoughtfully. "When did you figure it out, for sure?"

I sigh, lean against him. "Not for a long time, actually. I went on my own for awhile." I fiddle with a loose string on my jeans. "I needed to figure out this modern world and how I fit into it. I needed to mourn the life I no longer had. I needed to mourn you." I press my forehead against his. "And I needed to reconcile the adults calling me 'mom' with the little boys I remembered. But by the time I managed all that, I was stuck in an alternate universe."

"But they got you out." He twists a strand of my hair around his finger. "They told me about that. What they had to do to find you."

I close my eyes. "Yes, they found me. They came for me. And by that time, I'd convinced myself that I was imagining things. But then they . . . well, that was when I saw them."

2018

I really hope the clothes I gave Sam fit. It was so hard to locate a shirt and jacket that looked like they might be long enough for his gigantic frame. Your average man is six or seven inches shorter. Even Dean has to be smaller by a good four inches.

I'm pacing.

Striding back and forth in this clearing. And not actually stressed about male attire. 

Sam died, actually died, on the way here. And Dean . . . . Dean looked like he was dead inside when he arrived here. The way he spoke about going back into the vampire nest for Sam's body. Well, it was clear he never intended to come back out. One boy recently dead, the other recently suicidal. They can't possibly be okay.

I have to check on them. My maternal instincts--such as they are--scream at me to make certain my sons are still here, still healthy, still as mentally stable as two hunters can be.

The cabin I pointed Sam to after handing him the hand-me-downs of one of our fallen stands near the edge of our encampment, almost more in the woods than a part of our tiny pseudo-village. It's a small--very small--one room house. No bathroom, no closet, no privacy screen. So, I fully expect to find Dean guarding the door while Sam changes inside. But he isn't.

I stop myself from barging in. Dean was probably not killed by marauding angels. Also, Sam might still be naked. I should knock, instead. But I don't. Something stops me. A distant memory of the late-night corridors of the Bunker, of whispers too intimate for brothers.

I slink to the left, peek through the dirty glass of the nearest window, instead.

Sam is, in fact, mostly naked. Bare-chested, jeans unbuckled. His bloody clothes discarded in a messy heap on the floor.

Movement. Dean steps into view. I blink. There's no reason why he should be half nude as well. And yet. Nothing covers the lower half of his body. And I really was not prepared to see that.

Or what happens after.

Sam hoists Dean into his arms, slams him against the wall, Dean's legs rising to wrap around him. No. But there's no mistaking the rhythmic movements that start a moment later. Or the moans, grunts, sighs that seep through the cracks in the windowpane. 

Maybe I should stay here, in apocalypse world.

2019

John rubs circles in my back. "When I saw my boys on campus that day, I realized something," he begins. "I don't know if there's such a thing as soulmates. Though you're mine if there is." He kisses me softly, gently. "But Sam and Dean have a bond that transcends . . . familial ties."

I nod. "I know. I've figured that out." I play with the hem on John's jacket. "But it still makes me uncomfortable. I think it always will."

He slides his free hand over mine, grasps it. "I don't think that matters, as long as you don't treat them any differently." He lifts my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. "All they want from you is love."

I press my lips to his. "I can give them that."

Sam's voice calls "Mom?" followed by Dean's deeper tones shouting "Dad!" and Sam adding "Are you ready?"

John and I look at each other. He nods; we stand. Hand in hand, we walk to the library to send him back to his own time, to say goodbye.


End file.
